The Rules of War
by QuixoticQuill
Summary: After a strange turn of events one fateful night in London, a 20th century surgeon finds herself in a do or die situation with none other than Colonel William Tavington. Lust and curiosity give rise to passion and something foreign to them both - love.
1. Death and the Lady

EGADS! It's another cliché time travel story! Woe is you!

Not to worry, dear reader, I'll try and keep it as heart pounding as possible with spicy sex and action as any other self respecting Patriot story involving the ravishing Colonel William Tavington tends to be.

As always, _The Patriot _and all characters in it belong to Columbia Pictures and any other respective holder of said intellectual property. I am not profiting from writing this material based off of their property.

_Italics indicate thought or writing._

* Indicates a footnote at the end of the chapter for historical goodies or an author note on the subject.

* * *

Chapter 1 – Death and the Lady

_October 31__st__, 1980_

"Paging Dr. Brant to unit fifty six. Paging Dr. Brant to unit fifty six," crackled the intercom overhead, bringing the lumps of humans out from under their borrowed blankets and onto their feet. One small lump rested on, thankfully unassigned to Dr. Brant's unfortunate team of fresh interns.

_Must be a new donor organ flown in to stick into someone on the waiting list_, Vivian mused to herself in the warm cocoon of generic hospital throws. Although reeking of medicine and rubbing alcohol as most things in Saint Mary's did, they served to keep her warm in the iced air of the staff room.

The need for caffeine and a ghastly pile of paperwork waiting on her desk drove her from the bunks, sending the woman plodding out onto the linoleum of the hallway. After a short trip to the cafeteria and a round through the intensive care unit to check the progress on a stabilized trauma case she had on the table an hour or so ago, she started back towards the relatively hectic surgical unit and her cupboard of an office.

"Doctor Manners!" crowed an orderly from a nearby nursing station as she was locking up after retrieving her papers, her body twisting awkwardly as she fumbled with the lock while nodding to the staff, "Goode said she had your hours covered."

Vivian Manner blew out a sigh of relief, throwing a salute to the orderly with newfound energy. "Then I'm out before someone has time to come up with work and drag me back in here. Happy Halloween!"

After a few more short stops along the way to the front of the hospital proper to chat with familiar faces on duty at the graveyard hour, she was out in the brisk air of the night. The children and their amusing costumes were away in bed by this hour, but other sorts of masked revelers too old for curfew were out. In and out of high rises and flats, they stumbled drunkenly to other Halloween haunts.

The noise from the crowded streets gradually faded as she made her two mile trek from Saint Mary's to the Westminster area, forgoing the customary quick trip on the Underground to her place in Lambeth.

_What a night_, she wondered to herself as she started on the first leg across the bridge, Big Ben and Parliament crouched by the Thames over her shoulder as she made for the other side of the winding river.

The air would do her good, she figured. It wasn't often she had the time to make the trek from one part of the city to the next. Since the start of her term as a certified house officer* in the wards of Saint Mary's, her flat had become more of a temporary closet and place to shower rather than a home. Vivian ate, slept, and breathed her career.

"Duckie! You a nurse for this Halloween? Where's that nice bit o' skirt getup 'stead of those drab jimmy-jams you're sportin'!" called a heckling voice from behind.

Smothering panic under a surge of anger at the nerve of the man, she turned to face a staggering trio of punks trailing not too far behind. She only had to glimpse the shine of a switchblade dangling in one of their hands to guess their angle on her.

"Sod off! I'll scream." She tried out the threat, the tremor of doubt in her voice egging on the men as if they were hounds scenting blood in the air.

"No harm, love! Just takin' in the air, is all." One of the burliest crooned in assurance to her, the pink tone of his gelled hair belonging more to a tropical bird than any self respecting man. She swallowed, frantically trying to work a quick plan of evasion out in her head, but her damn brain seemed more bent on puzzling out the bizarre hair colours of the young hooligans in her moment of panic.

_C'mon, Manners. Let's pull it together._

They had backed her into a small outcrop of a viewing platform over the Thames after a few crooning advances, effectively cornering their evening sport. She proved them wrong after a moment of hesitation, heaving herself over the rail without losing sight of them, clenching onto the metal like a cocklebur least she slip. Couldn't she hang here and pray they wouldn't step closer until a passerby came over the bridge? Oddly vacant of cars and buses, the bridge was empty at this late hour save her and the three unwelcome admirers. It was either this or let them get a hold of her. She didn't favor the latter choice.

As soon as that last realization took root, her trainers slipped on the rain slickened metal, body bending in a backward arch and disappearing from view.

"Whot'chit! Bint just tipped 'erself off the rail!" A spike haired punk yammered, motioning to the narrow strip of iron bars strutted along the sidewalk. He and his mates ambled up to the rail with much clinking from their leather and metal duds, faces peering over to scan the glimmering black for any ripple of the splash that never came. The three men could only stare on in awe at the Thames.

"Nothin'. Like her up and vanished right into thin air, I tell you. Witchy."

* * *

* A House Officer is the UK's equivalent to a resident, a person who has received their medical degree/completed their internship. They're still supervised by a fully licensed physician in a hospital or clinic while training to specialize in a specific branch of medicine, such as emergency medicine or pediatrics.


	2. Blow, Ye Winds, Blow

As always, _The Patriot _and all characters in it belong to Columbia Pictures and any other respective holder of said intellectual property. I am not profiting from writing this material based off of their property.

_Italics indicate thought or writing._

* Indicates a footnote at the end of the chapter for historical goodies or an author note on the subject.

* * *

Chapter 2 – Blow, Ye Winds, Blow

_January 17__th__, 1781_

The most difficult case she'd seen in the long afternoon had to be this mess laid out on the canvas square before her, Vivian concluded. For a battle that only lasted the sum of an hour, give or take a few minutes, it produced enough wounded and dead equal to a fully fledged blood bath waged from sun up to sun down. What resulted was this, a sorry sight of a man cut down in his prime.

A quick yank had brought a discolored lump of lead out from his left bicep and into her pockets, but that gaping hole was easily patched and bound in comparison to the other wounds on the dragoon.

_Precise hits_, she mused to herself as she eased the slender length of a bayonet from the guts and viscera of her current patient before staunching the flow of blood with a fresh pad of folded cloth. The stab wound was a considerable, piercing through a few layers of abdominal muscle and intestines before exiting out along another wall of muscle and skin from behind. Whoever had pulled him off the field had had the foresight to leave the bayonet in, only removing the musket attached for the sake of safety. No spinal damage, from what she could see. The blade glanced in at an angle by some act of providence.

Bent over her work, the scene under the sprawling limbs of the elm tree seemed to gradually blur and evaporate. Soon, it was only her and the solider in her world of focus. She was left only boiled linen fibers from her fast dwindling stores for sutures, hard pressed for proper supplies to mend this latecomer. Vivian would rather have had the catgut to sew in, but with wounds that took weeks to even knit held with easily absorbable fibers which would simply dissolve in half the time, she'd risk the sterility of the wound for sturdy stitches of cloth rather than organic material. It would be more of a nightmare to have to reopen the wound and suture it again in a few weeks time, if this poor mess of a man even made it to that point.

A splash from the keg of her precious brew of raw alcohol sent him reeling off the canvas sheet, but his throat could only work out a strangled gurgle full of blood and detritus. Vivian winced, praying to whatever higher power that the slashed abdominal muscles wouldn't have to contract to bring anymore bile up. One of the colonel's subordinates had assured her that their fearless leader never 'broke his fast' before combat.

_Wilkins, was it?_

Ah, yes, the man himself was only a few paces away fretting, concern marking his surprisingly youthful face as Vivian worked to repair the broken body beneath her hands.

_What I wouldn't give for hypodermic needles and a good set of surgical staples_, she groused mentally as another tedious few minutes ticked by with her delicate stitching. She had mended the cuts to his intestinal tract with more linen sutures after addressing his punctured trachea, giving the skewered areas a quick swab of alcohol applied on a bit of boiled cotton with her crude clamps. Another precious minute saw him well sealed up against further blood loss on all three entry and exit wounds with more sutures and squares of linen glued down with sticky honey, a surprisingly clean and effective adhesive given her lack of options. After a few quick assessments of the colonel's thundering pulse and a glance at the sweat popping out over his brow, she rose to her feet to address Wilkins.

"That's the best I can do without losing anymore blood. The fever's already set in. If he can avoid rot and thirst 'til the fever breaks, he's in the clear. Not counting the months it'll take to recover or if any nourishment can even _pass_ through that mess after working through his belly."

It was as if she had taken the weight of the world off Wilkins' shoulders with her slightly hopeful prognosis.

"Bless you, ma'am!" he sighed out, head ducking in a courteous nod to her.

"No trouble."

A groan drew both their gazes back to the colonel, his fever gradually burning through the laudanum she'd forced down his throat as soon as it was stitched.

"Sleeping Beauty awakens. That last bit of work on his gut would've done in the average man, I think."

That earned her only a surprisingly lucid glare from her charge, causing her eyebrows to shoot up in her delight. "Probably want to give him a few more tots from the blue bottle tonight, Mr. Wilkins. No solid food for a month. If he's got room to be offended, I'm sure he'll pull through."

"Laceration to your trachea, sir. The cut to your stomach is the one I'm more concerned with." She elaborated her point to the colonel, motioning to the wraps of snowy muslin binding his stomach.

"It's a miracle it hit nothing vital. You'll live to scar another day." The small tease brought a weak, reassuring smile for the handsome officer to her face. He only stared blankly in reply. Wilkins stumbled into the colonel's view, hunching over to impart whatever report or reassurance to his superior. The able bodied soldiers would help carry him off to the tents, leaving Vivian blissfully free from responsibility for the foreseeable future. She mumbled directions to the pair, warning the colonel of twisting his stitches out in the process of any sort of straining movement. An understanding nod from Wilkins and more silence from the wounded colonel sent her on her way towards the other side of camp, lugging her prized keg and medicine chest along.

Her tidy tent space was a welcome sight, but it quickly took second prize in her heart when she submerged her blood caked hands into the cracked basin of wash water.

Thoroughly sterilized with foul smelling lye soap after her hand soak, she toddled towards her boiling kettle set over her low burning fire situated in the ring of other tents with her heavy work chest. A quick glance inside assured her that this one was indeed empty of vegetable matter, unlike last time, before upending a drawer over the kettle. Out spilled all manner of instruments into the cleansing boil, hitting the iron bottom with solid clinks. Satisfied, she retreated back out of the nipping wind to her tent, mentally ticking off the time it would take to boil out the deadly bacteria thriving on the contaminated surface of her instruments.

A few quick tugs had the pins holding the bed gown draped over her jumps and petticoat falling onto her cot. Jumps were leagues better than the horrible stays she was bundled into in England. Thought to be more suitable to the common women by the colonial ladies, jumps worked for her just fine. She patted at the plump swells of her breasts cinched comfortably in the sleeved contraption of stiff linen and laces, hopping experimentally.

"Fine engineering for the assets. I can kiss that ratty old bra goodbye."

"Madam! A minute of your time?" called a voice from outside her small sanctuary, startling her from her private observations. A good look at the polished Hessians visible from the open tent flaps had her well convinced that an officer was asking for her. She stuck her head out for a word, brows sweeping up at the sight of a harried looking Charles O'Hara.

"Thought you were already advancing north with milord Cornwallis, General O'Hara."

The decorated young tactician blinked owlishly at her dressed down state of attire in the January air, eyes lingering on the exposed state of her breasts before she brought back his attention with a small clearing of the throat. O'Hara raised a sealed envelope bearing the waxed mark of his commander on it, and she accepted it mutely.

"We never thought to leave a lady in our haste, madam. Lord Cornwallis instructed me to have you in a wagon or on a horse heading for the coast. Things have taken a decidedly foul turn for our campaign. A rear camp full of wounded men is no place for a lady, no matter the circumstances," his lips turned down at the mere idea of it, "while Continentals could be advancing to take this flank of the army at any hour."

"I'll stay in the interest of lending a hand to the wounded, sir. It's the least I can do. I don't rightly think the colonials will go to the extremes of harming a woman, no matter how backwater their conduct may be. And by the by, if Lord Cornwallis wants to be the one who designates what I do and where I go from here on, he should've collected me as he was high tailing it from the field. Off with you, sir." She waved a casual hand to him.

"Mistress Vivian, I do insist-" was all that he managed to get out before she flung back the flaps of her tent, dismissing the insistent O'Hara without a word. She set the letter aside, deciding that whatever Cornwallis had to say to such an unworthy sort like her was best saved as an entertaining bedtime read.

_A quick look in on Colonel Sourpuss wouldn't hurt_, she realized. _After I make a round through the field surgeon's tent and prevent another useless bleeding. Ghastly medieval medicine. _


	3. Pox of this Nonsense!

Much thanks to the lovely readers for peeking in on my little yarn! Feel free to drop a review in for your writer! I love me some feedback.

MsNarcissaBlack – Thank you for the review, ma'am! I look forward to hearing from you again.

SlytherinDragoon – I'm a bit of a fanatic when it comes to following the period's costume, so I do hope my aim strikes right on all the clothing described forthwith! As to the skip, it will be explained in later chapters, but it was purely intentional. My bad if I've thrown anyone off with confusion! I certainly look forward to hearing from you, as I've read your work and loved every bit of _Innocence Lost_.

As always, The Patriot and all characters in it belong to Columbia Pictures and any other respective holder of said intellectual property. I am not profiting from writing this material based off of their property.

_Italics indicate thought or writing._

* Indicates a footnote at the end of the chapter for historical goodies or an author note on the subject.

* * *

Chapter 3 – Pox of this Nonsense!

_January 18__th__, 1781_

Colonel William "The Butcher" Tavington was not a man to be trifled with in any condition. Wilkins and a few hapless British Regulars learned this lesson quickly after insisting on a man to sit at Tavington's bedside for the night. Said man lasted a grand total of half an hour before bowing out of the race, bets now in place around many a campfire that the ornery and vicious colonel would not make it through the night at the rate he was refusing care. The generous soldier who offered the aid couldn't be blamed for deserting. Heavy objects thrown by a snarling patient weren't working conditions worth the amount of shillings the dragoons were offering for his troubles.

After Tavington had dispatched the latest ninny who thought to play nursemaid with him, he collapsed back onto his cot in a heap of trembling limbs and stale sweat. The fever ached right to his bones with the chill. Even the worn travel cloak and tiny brazier set as safely close as possible to his sickbed did nothing to alleviate the shaking cold.

White knuckled and tense, the colonel stared holes into the sloped roof of his cramped tent. He had at least had the foresight to straighten out his affairs before leaving all those years ago for this campaign. Whatever meager sum left in his accounts in London would be bequeathed to Augusta as a trustee for her young sons until they came of age to inherit.

He wondered silently about his far flung family in his delirium. Dear old Gussie and her husband were expecting another by the time he embarked for the colonies.

Florence and Frances were safely absconded in sound marriages in Southampton to a pair of brothers partnered in some sort of booming business venture involving sulfur water.

Matilda was due to make her debut in society this season under Aunt Louisa, he realized as another pain griped at his guts. Tiny Tilly, all grown up in just a few short years.

_Tempus fugit,_ he thought sardonically. Time did fly.

"You're looking worse for wear, sir. Muttering about a sweetheart and flying clocks, are we?" A voice trilled by his ear, startling him out of his fever dreams. It was the strange woman again, draped heavily in winter shawls.

"Forgive me. I didn't think I'd have such marked pleasant company at this hour." He drew up the cloak over his naked shoulder, more for warmth than modesty.

"You sound thrilled! I've heard word on the wind that you've been a bit resistant to a caring hand, sir. You'll never make it out of this swamp with that attitude."

This Vivian Manners, as she was presumably called if Wilkins could be relied on for correct information, sat herself down on the medicine chest she had lugged in with her for lack of a better seat. A no nonsense look was shot at him before a sneaky yank had his cloak in a puddle around his waist. One look at his bound stomach had her hissing in sympathy, him shifting in the uncomfortably vulnerable position the woman had him in. He was a mess from the waist down; swirling tones of puce, puss yellow, and a strange shade of sickly green had all surged out into his skin from under the bindings. Manners reached for one of the myriad of large drawers in the chest, reverently placing what he guessed was some sort of fabric swaddled lump near the brazier after rummaging around.

"The heat will get them moving in a minute," she said offhandedly, pointing towards what he now saw clearly as an earthenware jar with a thin swatch of silk serving as the top, bound tightly to the jar with twine. Tavington shot the woman a look, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"It seems your wounds have brought on a little congestion of blood under the skin, which the _hirudo medicinalis_ is more than happy to help alleviate," she offered as an answer, smiling blithely at his flabbergasted appearance.

"You're not bleeding me with those wretched things, woman. Go peddle your archaic medicine on some other fool," he hissed, a surge of anger bringing him to a sitting position on the cot.

"Leeches are the painless alternative, unless you prefer me taking one of those horrible contraptions to you for pricking and slicing. It's your funeral." The strange woman fixed him with a studious look, seemingly more fascinated with his objections than frustrated. Silenced, he fell limply back on the mess of bedclothes in grudging submission. A careful slash with her penknife had the strips binding his stomach in shreds, the affected area bare to bleed at her bloody leisure.

Vivian fished out two of the languidly twisting blobs from her pot, setting them down on the discoloured stretch of his abdomen. Careful of his patches, she gently coaxed the leeches to take hold with a thumb to what he presumed were the heads.

"Tell me about Tilly, then. Is this your wife?" Tavington chuckled weakly at her attempt at distracting conversation, his eyes glazed over with fever. He'd humour her.

"Tilly is my youngest sibling. A striking resemblance to our mother. She's unbearably kind tempered, though. Very vulnerable," Tavington muttered to Vivian. The woman quirked a genuine smile before plopping a few more of the disgusting creatures onto his mottled stomach. A few quick pinches and that was all he felt, the leeches settling right down to the task at hand.

_The task at…mouth, rather._

"I can't even feel them," he admitted, raking a few sweat soaked strands of dirty hair back into the half undone queue.

"Amazing, no? It's in their saliva. Some form of numbing agent and anticoagulant that keeps the blood from clotting before they take their fill. They fall right off after they've swollen up with the blood. I'm surprised they survived the crossing, to be honest." Manners reached with a long, slender finger to prod at the first few leaches dining on the pooling treat of wasted plasma, the area already noticeably less bloated and tender after the fattened bloodsuckers popped off of him.

Tavington didn't quite share her enthusiasm for the eyesores, but he did feel considerably less pained than when he did before.

Like a mothering hen, she set about re-bandaging and cleansing his wounds with more of the burning solution before sticking the patches edged with honey.

"I'll pray that a passing bear doesn't take notice of what you're covering a bloody wound with. I'll come out alive after Cowpens only to be a glazed sweetmeat for some furry abomination in this damnable backwater," he groused to himself aloud.

This only sent the tart into a round of trilling laughter, well naturedly shoving a serviceable tin cup into his hands after she had composed herself once more. He had noticed her wielding it in her first few minutes in his home away from home before she set it aside on the grille of the brazier. The smell wafting up in lazy whorls of steam had his attention in a heartbeat.

"Spiked with laudanum, so I suggest you take the opportunity to rest. The drugs _and_ tea leaves are getting harder to come by with the supply lines cutting off. Be thankful."

Before he could object to her violating more personal boundaries, the strong boned fingers were making short work of unraveling his queue. His eyes were drawn up the delicate curve of a wrist to the comely lines of her long neck as he politely enjoyed his rare treat of tea instead of gritting out a word of thanks. Tavington had never truly noticed in their few encounters how fine of features the lady was, or the warm darkness of her eyes as they were intent upon a task.

_Without a doubt, it's the fever. I'll be raving mad by noon._

After she had worked his lank, foul smelling hair from its confines, she stepped out for a brief minute to fetch back a basin of boiling water from some vast cauldron out in the camp.

"I hope you don't mind lye, Tavington. I'll throw in a bit of cloves to see if that can get the _eau de_ dead swine smell out of the soap."

_The woman values her life. No foppish scents in my hair, by God._


End file.
